Archive for category Kids
The obstinate child and four little bites
There are a lot of things about being a parent that will likely drive you to the brink of hair-pulling frustration. Trying to get an 18th month-old to stand still long enough for a diaper and outfit change can test the patience of a stone. And you know that stubbornness you pride yourself on? Yeah, well, apparently that’s a dominant genetic thing that most definitely wiggles its way down to your kids. Which means, of course, that no matter how many times you tell your self-assured offspring to quit bickering about who ate the last freaking Double-Stuf cookie last night, they aren’t going to give up on the argument until someone is proven correct. Or a fight breaks out.
Which is how you find yourself, at 39 years old, uttering seemingly incoherent interjections like, “Aaaah”, “zzzzi”, “ohhhp”, “naaaah”, and “shhh” while standing in front of a pair of kids, each with a face screwed up in self-righteous indignation, to keep them from getting out That. One. Last. Argument.
For the record, I’m pretty sure all my kids are going into litigation of some form or another.
All the other frustrations of parenthood, though, pale in comparison to the nightmares that can be visited upon you at the…
Duh, duh, duh.
*thunder crash*
Dinner Table.
In the first part of his classic epic poem, Inferno, Dante outlines the nine circles of Hell. But if you ask me, and probably any other parent who’s ever attempted to get an obstinate three-year old to eat at least some portion of dinner, the First Circle, the Limbo circle, is almost certainly populated with nothing but children with sealed steel-trap mouths and lukewarm plates of spaghetti. Oh, yeah, and the poor, tortured souls trapped there until they manage to get a kid to eat something.
Which is exactly how I felt last night.
The Attitude, who thankfully is becoming less, well, attitude-y, as he gets older announced last night, after idly pushing a few noodles around his plate, “I done, Daddy. I be escoosed, please?”
The kid gets points for politeness, of course, but in general, left to his own devices, he’d live on cheese sandwiches and applesauce.
And so, being the theoretically grown-up in our relationship, I decreed he must eat four bites before he could withdrawal from dinner.
You’d have thought I demanded he kill a newborn chick barehanded.
For the next 20 minutes of my life, I waited patiently as my three year-old sobbed, wailed, and gnashed his teeth over the injustice of having to eat four little bites.
Those Twenty minutes stretched out before me as if time stood still. New species were born and became extinct, civilizations rose and fell, plants died, were crushed, and squeezed into diamonds, the Simpsons celebration their millennial continuous season on TV, and the universe contracted and exploded anew while I waited.
And then, finally, the wailing stopped, the tears dammed up, and the Attitude picked up his fork.
Together, we counted as he took bites…
1…
2…
3…
(“How many more, now?” He sniffled and extended a single, lonely finger. He may not eat much, but his math is pretty good)
4…
“Now, was that so hard?” I asked. With great, anime-shining eyes, he looked up at me, pouting, and nodded in the affirmative.
Well, I guess I can’t expect win them all.
But at least I won the epic Battle of Four Little Bites.
Pud’n
Surviving the Weekend of Doom
Weeks ago, when I first noticed this past weekend on my calendar, I raised an eyebrow. And when that plus the subsequent glare of suspicion didn’t clear away any of the events squeezed onto those two blocks of dates, I shuddered.
Saturday: 1 overnight Cub Scout campout + 1 Little League baseball game + 1 overnight sleepover event for Princess Puddinette.
Sunday: Pack up and return from camping + 1 family First Communion party locally + 1 simultaneous family First Communion party 90 miles away.
Those are just the events, too. That doesn’t include all the typical stuff that keeps the modern family moving forward instead of devolving into a dirty, stinky, 21st-century version of “Sanford and Son”. You know, cleaning, laundry, bathing, etc. Sure, sure, when you’re a 20-something bachelor living alone, if you miss a week of laundry and let the living room go without a dusting for another week, you’re not asking for much trouble.
But when you add four kids, a dog, and a spouse whom you still can’t believe was willing to overlook the general state of filth you lived in when you first met, that doesn’t really fly any more.
So, anyway, that was my weekend. At first glance, I thought it was enough to make even the shiniest, happiest person weep. But, hold on, there, Chuck, that’s not all! As an added bonus, all that outdoor camping and baseball fun on Saturday afternoon included, free of charge!, the occasionally bucketful of rain as well as a 15-degree drop in the ambient outdoor temperature.
Now, one would think that a measurable amount of rain would perhaps simplify things somewhat by postponing the baseball game. But noooooo. The rain arrived strategically, just spaced out enough so as to ensure that somehow we could enjoy the cool, comforting sensation of soaking-wet socks while taking in four hours of little league in an invigorating 43-degree breeze.
And then I got to sleep on the ground.
But hey, I shouldn’t complain. I suppose the ground could have been harder; it was, after all, you know, sodden.
The good news is that we made it through our gauntlet of a weekend, sanity still largely intact. The scouts had a blast camping—rain or no rain, the baseball game was won, and my daughter had more fun at the sleepover than she could shake a My Little Pony at. And after the Communion parties were celebrated and the weekend chores largely done, we all collapsed pretty much where we stood and gave a great, collective sigh.
There may have been napping.
The only one a little worse for wear is me, still a bit tired two days later, and more sore than I’d care to admit as sleeping in a tent apparently leaves one a bit stiff in the neck and shoulders at my age. Sure, I might have called in Exhausted this morning, were that really an option, but then, this isn’t France. So I dragged myself from bed, feeling what can only be described as a bit hungover, which is supremely unfair as I’d done nothing over the past 48 hours to deserve it.
Which brings us to today’s lesson: when you reach a point like this in life where you have to stoically persevere through the Weekend of Doom, you might as well set aside some time on Sunday evening to tie on one.
Probably earlier on Sunday rather than later, though, since, you know, you won’t be staying awake long.
Either way, if you’re going to be stuck feeling the hangover, you might as well get to enjoy the fun part of that too.
Now, can someone please pass me the Icy-Hot?
Pud’n
Gone fishin’ with the boys
When we were younger, my older brother hated to go fishing with me. Nonetheless, two or three times every summer, we’d go together anyway. Of course, we’d inevitably choose the most sweltering day of the year, when eggs fried in their shells long before they even got close to the sidewalk. So with our too-shaggy hair (as was the custom in the early 80′s) plastered by sweat to our foreheads, we’d grab our beginner’s thumb-button Zebco rod-n-reel combos and a small plastic box of tackle—which included a number of lures we’d never understand or use to any positive effect—and hike a mile or so up and across the “new road” (a four lane, divided highway, so think Frogger-with-fishing-poles) to our pond.
Our pond, of course, wasn’t so much actually ours as it was some farmer’s who we never saw. Frequently, cows would come to visit and hang out while we offered our bait to the water’s fishy denizens. They seemed unimpressed with out fishing prowess.
Did I mention that we might have had to climb a fence or two, at least one of which was barbed, to get there? In retrospect, it’s lucky we didn’t get shot.
Ah…childhood memories.
Anyway, as I said before, my brother hated fishing with me. It’s not that I was troublesome or anything; I clearly wasn’t that kind of little brother. At least, I don’t remember it that way. I suppose he might have a different opinion.
He hated it, though (and will attest to this today, almost 30 years later), because I’d catch a bass or two in the first five minutes of our arrival, typically before he even had a line in the water. Of course, after my lightning-quick success, neither of us would get so much as a tiny bluegill nibble the rest of the day, no matter how long we risked our young lives fishing in Farmer McShotgun’s pond stayed.
The best part of it for me was the pride I’d see later in the eyes of my grandfather, the same one who eventually gave up trying to teach me to color inside the lines, when he came over and gauged my hard-won (read: lucky) catch in the freezer. I didn’t see it at the time, but I realize now that there’s always been some innate connection between fishing and grandfathers.
My father, on the other hand, who had to clean said catch when we returned with a pair of stinking fish that had been flopping in the weeds of the pond-bank in the sun for two hours, was often less than thrilled.
I can’t say I blame him.
Which is, of course, why I was very glad to hear that yesterday’s Annual Cub Scout Fishing Derby would be catch-and-release. No bloody fish guts for me, thankyouverymuch!
The Puddinpop, Mini-Me, myself and their grandfather took our fishing poles and our tackle-box (which still has lures I don’t understand the use of) to a local apartment pond yesterday with the Pack, and we fished to our little heart’s content.
Try not to get too worked up over my sexy pale legs, ladies!
The weather was nearly perfect, albeit a tad gusty, but the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and at about 75 degrees, my hair wasn’t sticking to my forehead. Then again, I don’t really have too much hair anymore. Nothing’s been left to get sweat-plastered to my forehead for fifteen years.
At any rate, we didn’t catch much, just a couple of bluegill early in the day. But I still have my old touch. In fact, I managed to catch a fish with my first cast. I was intending to demonstrate to the Puddinpop how to cast with an open-faced reel, something he’d never used before. So I opened the bail, swung the rod, and loosed the bait into the choppy water.
Two seconds later, I was reeling in the only fish I’d catch all day—and it wasn’t even my rod.
The Puddinpop, of course, thought that catching a fish on a demonstration cast was the funniest thing he’d seen in a week.
I’m pretty sure that, this time, my brother, thirty years later, might have agreed with him.
Pud’n
Everything you need to know about life can be learned from little league
Just a scrimmage, the coach’s email said. Saturday morning at 11 o’clock.
How bad could it be? A small spot of time in the sun on a crisp, spring morning watching the Puddinpop play a lil’ of the ole national pastime would be a pleasant way to start my Easter weekend, right? Maybe I could even do a little reading or plotting (and that’s book plotting, not caper scheming) from the bleachers.
And it’s just a scrimmage right? So…that means, what, like an hour? Hour and a half? Maybe three innings or everybody bats once? We’d be home just in time for lunch, I figured.
Oh, no. No, no, no. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I was treated instead to a full game scrimmage. That means five innings and nearly three hours of kid-pitched little league baseball.
Did I mention that at 10:30 on a cool Saturday morning in early April, some form of protection for my increasingly sparsely-covered head (face too, for that matter) was the furthest thing from my mind? Yeah, it might have been a wise choice, because I’m an awe-inspiring shade of pink right now.
Personally, I think I’m French Rose, but the Puddinette leans more towards cerise.
Sunburn aside, for those of you who’ve never had the privilege, third graders pitching to third graders (many of whom are pitching and/or batting for the first time) is an exhilaration experience. And by exhilarating, I mean, “Holy lord, is it only the 2nd inning!?”
In fact, let it be written that I truly wondered for the first time in my entire life if I am, in fact, a terrible, evil human when I caught myself thinking, “Good night, that kid’s like 2-foot nothing. His strike zone is shorter than my attention span; he’ll walk for sure. Curse this interminable game!”
There may have been sobbing. I’m not saying.
Really, though, it wasn’t that bad. And all my kvetching-for-effect aside, at the end of the top half of the fourth inning, it got even better when I realized that little league baseball is the perfect metaphor for everyday life.
The Puddinpop’s team was in the field with two outs, and facing runners on second and third. The pitcher toed the rubber, went through his motion, and delivered. And like 80% of the other pitches thrown Saturday, it glanced off the catcher’s mitt and rolled to the backstop.
The runner on third broke for home, never looking back.
The catcher popped out of his crouch and dashed for the ball. He snagged it and charged back to the plate. Dropping to his knees and skidding forward slightly, his mitt hit to dirt in front of the plate.
The runner’s foot kicked up a cloud of dust sliding towards it.
Foot met mitt. The umpire shouted, for the first time all day. “He’s OUT!”
The crowd – can you call 12 people a crowd? – erupted in applause and woops of delight.
It was a perfect play, made that much better by the fact that it was probably the fourth such passed-ball attempt to steal home in the game. Each time before, the runner scored because the catcher was still learning how to play the game. And with every instance he got a little coaching and a few words of support about what to do and think about during the game.
And the lessons all came together in a few heartbeats at home plate.
That’s life, to a tee. The entire world around us is fraught with mistakes, critical thinking errors, and foolhardy plans, and we all make plenty of missteps of our own. In the real word, it seems like 90% of the time nothing goes the way it’s supposed to, at least the first time around. But when something goes wrong, you don’t give up, can’t give up; you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get ready for the next pitch, the next plan, the next big moment in your life.
Because one of these times, you’ll get it just right. One of these times, you’ll keep everything in mind and make all the right moves. And that one time, just like when our first-time catcher blocked that runner, you’ll suddenly remember exactly why you put up with all the crap and the screwing up and trying again.
Because every now and then, it comes out perfect. And when it does, the crowd goes wild.
And that’s why we play the game.
Pud’n
Dreams, determination, and the Pinewood Derby Tank
“I want it to be like a tank,” he said, face alight with eight year-old glee. “And I want to paint it with camo.”
A tank.
My son, Mini-Me, held a rectangular block of pine in his hands, undoubtedly envisioning his combat-ready pinewood derby racer as it screamed down the track, blasting opponents out of its way.
And somehow I had to figure out how to make that happen.
At first I suggested that perhaps a tank wasn’t the best possible design for something that was, you know, intended to race. “It’ll be big and blocky,” I told him, “and that might slow it down compared to the other race cars.”
“I don’t care,” he replied, demonstrating the kind of resolve I’d like to see in just one elected official these days.
There was no putting him off, a tank it would be. I had to decide, then, how best to turn a block of wood into a heavy assault vehicle, complete with camouflage and a big honking cannon.
Of course, when it comes to design and planning this sort of thing, I’m about as useful as a frightened box turtle in the middle of a busy intersection. And I only hope my building skill with tools will someday be nearly equivalent to the turtle’s. But I’m the Cub Scout Dad. This was my responsibility. No one was going to do it for me.
Don’t think I didn’t consider it. But that would have been cheating.
So I stared at the block. And stared. And scratched my beard. And poured myself a nice pale ale. And stared some more.
Somehow, slowly, light began to burn away the dimness in the soft, grey, atrophied building stuff portion of my brain.
Cut off a chunk there and mount it on top for the turret.
Slice off a wedge here.
Another wedge over here.
Maybe it could work after all. And really, do aerodynamics mean anything when it comes to a 5 oz wooden car? It’s not like the thing had to be able to escape Earth’s gravity or would undergo wind tunnel testing or anything.
And so the lad and I went to work with my drill and my multi-tool. We lopped off chunks here and there, we sanded it to his satisfaction, we mounted the turret, and we added a drinking-straw cannon. I stopped at the local hobby store and bought three tiny, squarish bottles of paint that took me back to my model-building youth. When we cracked them open and Mini-Me started to apply them, the smell had me reminiscing about the A-4 Skyhawk and the F-14 Tomcat that used to hang above my bed from monofilament fishing line.
More importantly, just like that, the impossible block of wood had become a tank.
But the question still lingered: would its complete lack of aerodynamics doom it to failure?
The first heat it ran didn’t bode well: 3rd place out of three, and trailing at that.
The second heat, though, showed some promise: 2nd place, and a close finish.
In the third heat, on its last chance, our blocky tank crossed the finish line in first place, to cheers and grins (and a great sigh of relief from someone’s old man).
In the end, Mini-Me’s tank didn’t win a den trophy or place in the big pack race. But it was a winning racer, nonetheless, if only in my heart.
My eight year-old knew what he wanted. He dreamed of a wooden tank that raced like a car. When I tried to talk him out of it, to suggest he go for something sleeker or, well, faster-looking, at least, he stuck to his guns and would not be dissuaded.
A tank, he said, with camo.
Lo and behold, by the end of the day, he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
Perhaps there’s a lesson here for all of us.
Do you know what your dream is? Whatever it is, stick to it, no matter what they tell you.
And, hey, maybe paint it camouflaged, just for good measure.
Pud’n
Like this:
Nine years later, he’s getting older, I’m just getting old.
Believe it or not, today is the Puddinpop’s 9th birthday. Nine. One less than 10. Which means that this time next year, he’ll be in double digits and I’ll have been a parent for a decade.
I’ve haven’t held the same job, driven the same car, or lived in the same house for 10 consecutive years.
Seriously, though, it’s very hard to reconcile that nine entire years have slipped by since the day the Puddinette and I welcomed our first little wrinkled, mewling bundle of pinkishness into the cold, hard world. We never could have imagined how much our lives would be changed, almost instantly, when our impatient little man popped his warm, watery cocoon, taking it upon himself to decide he was ready.
Quite the forecaster of things to come, by the way.
At any rate, can I get you all to join me in wishing the Puddinpop a happy sports-and-Pokemon-filled birthday? Yeah? Great. So…on three: 1…2….3
*waves hands*
Happy Birthday, Puddinpop!
Now, could I get you to maybe slow down on the growing up a bit?
And stop throwing balls in the house.
Pud’n
Stylez by Dadde’
In keeping with our new-found frugality, the puddinette and I have been discussing for weeks the possible option of self-styling the hair of sons 1 and 2. For reasons that still defy understanding, she planted her foot squarely against allowing me within 15 feet of my 3 year-old pink-and-lace-loving daughter with a pair of scissors. On the topic of home barbering the older boys’ hair, though, she was at least open to discussion.
As the need for haircuts drew near, I convinced her that I knew exactly what I was doing and was confident in my ability to minimize the potential damage to the hair of two male children, ages 6 and 5. In the back of my mind, of course, was the realization that in the absolute worst case, I could always shave their heads completely (to “even things up”, you see). I also might have neglected to mention during our negotiations that my only previous attempt at hair clipping took place under the influence of a six-pack of Sam Adams with an appreciative member of my former hockey team, who, (I have since been assured) thoroughly enjoyed appearing to have a monk’s bowl-like tonsure.
I think what really turned the discussion in my favor was when the puddinette realized that a) clippers could be acquired for the price of one haircut for both of the boys, and b) even if we never attempted it again, someday her wonderful husband will need to give up on the mirage that he still has enough hair to warrant paying good money to the nice girls at the local sports-themed, male-centric trim shop. When that day comes, the clippers will meet my scalp, and forever hence forth, I will be one among The Shaven. Thus, having a set of clippers isn’t exactly a bad investment; that day *is* coming, and it is inevitable.
So yesterday, after the puddinette left on the weekly grocery trek, I summoned both boys into the garage, shiny new clippers gripped tightly in my sweating palm. Thankfully, the experience was novel enough for the average 6 and 5 year-old that both were extremely enthusiastic. By drawing of straws, the younger was chosen for the first cut. He assumed his seat on my adapted barber’s chair, and bounced with anticipation as I wrapped him in the generic, trash-bag like “barber’s cape” that came packaged with the clippers. I attached the appropriate clipper comb and set the device on his forehead, ready for the initial pass. With a silent word of prayer, I flicked the switch to “on” and began.
……..bzzzzzzt…………bzzzzzzzzt…….bzzzzzt……..
“Huh”, I thought to myself, “that worked kinda like you see on TV”.
……..bzzzzzzt…………bzzzzzzzzt…….bzzzzzt……..
“Hey, well, that doesn’t look too bad….”
……..bzzzzzzt…………bzzzzzzzzt…….bzzzzzt……..
“Well, I’ll be damned! Maybe I won’t have to shave it down completely.”
When all was said and done, both boys were clipped and trimmed, and then gone over again to get any spots I might have missed. When the puddinette returned from her grocery extravaganza and looked upon my handiwork for the first time, her surprised was impossible to hide. “Wow, boys, your hair looks nice; Daddy actually did a pretty Good Job!”. Granted, she spent the next 2 minutes pointing out a places (just a few…here and there) where the clippers *had* to have been uneven since they resulted in wisps of unevenness. Nonetheless, for an amateur whose skill with hair clippers was likely to have been equivalent to an Army boot-camp barber, I must admit that I’m the tinist bit proud of how it all turned out.
Maybe it’s time now to start work on my own head.
pud’n
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